]]>Syracuse has an historic and appropriate link to Italy, one that pre-dates the influx of immigrants from that country during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The city is the namesake of the ancient town on the Italian seacoast in Sicily called Siracusa.

One wonders what the Italian immigrants, who settled in Syracuse during the 1880s through 1920s, thought about how this upstate locale wound up with the name of that Sicilian town. This is the story.

In 1820, the small settlement that stretched along the Genesee Turnpike (today’s Genesee Street) between Onondaga Creek and the road to the salt works near Onondaga Lake (today’s Salina Street), was known informally as Corinth. It was still so small that it had not yet been incorporated as a village. The Erie Canal was under construction, and portions had reached Corinth. The growth of the place seemed assured, and it was time to ask the federal government to establish a post office here.

A complication arose: Federal authorities told the optimistic Central New Yorkers that the name was taken. A town named Corinth had been incorporated two years earlier in Saratoga County. A new name was needed and quickly. A committee of local citizens was formed to mull over the issue.

One of the committee members was the pending first postmaster, John Wilkinson. He suggested the new name. Americans in the early 1800s were quite enamored with using ancient Greek and Roman names to identify the new towns in their young democracy. Think of Pompey, Marcellus and Cicero – all great figures in Roman history. Siracusa, or Syracuse, Sicily was founded in 734 BC by settlers from Greece and later conquered by Rome. Its rich history included the great mathematician Archimedes. Many Greek and Roman ruins remain today and were also known in the 19th century.

It was more John Wilkinson’s fascination with its geography, however, that inspired him to make the suggestion. It was a city that faced water. Wilkinson thought of Onondaga Lake. There were hills surrounding it. Same here in Central New York. Nearby there were evaporating flats making salt from seawater, and an adjacent settlement called Salina, where this salt-making took place. Wilkinson could not ignore the similarities.

But what drew his interest to Siracusa in the first place?

The connection was a 20-year-old future prime minister of England, the 14th Lord of Derby. While a student at Oxford in 1819, the soon to be Lord Edward Stanley wrote a lengthy poem, in Latin, about the mythology and history of Siracusa, winning a prize at Oxford. Wilkinson stumbled upon the poem in a friend’s library in New York City. It caused him to research Siracusa, which was fresh in his mind when the need for our city’s name arose.

So Syracuse it was. This historical link to Italy expanded a hundredfold in later years, when the great flow of Italian immigrants began to arrive in America, peaking in 1907, when nearly 375,000 arrived, many through Ellis Island.

They came to Syracuse and other upstate cities for jobs. It was usually manual labor at first, some working in the salt fields, other helping to build railroads and the city’s new water system from Skaneateles Lake. Cousins, brothers, sisters and parents soon joined them, to escape the grinding poverty that prevailed in much of southern Italy and Sicily.

By 1900, Italians comprised the third-largest segment of foreign-born citizens in Syracuse, surpassed only by German and Irish natives. Italian contributions to the businesses, economy, social life and culture of Syracuse were extensive and form part of the great ethnic heritage that is such an asset to our community.

The Onondaga Historical Association Museum has recently opened an exhibit titled “It’s In Our Very Name: The Italian Heritage of Syracuse.” Most of the exhibit explores the Italian immigrant experience in Syracuse and its dynamic influence on the community, through topics such as family, food, work, religion and social activities. Those who can trace their heritage to Italy remains one of the largest segments of the Syracuse area’s population. The OHA is especially thankful to the many people of Italian ancestry who loaned treasured family photos and artifacts for the exhibit, which will run through March 2015.

Dennis Connors is curator of history at the Onondaga Historical Association.

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]]>http://www.syracusenewtimes.com/ancient-italian-city/feed/0Salt Played Role in War of 1812http://www.syracusenewtimes.com/salt-played-role-in-war-of-1812/
http://www.syracusenewtimes.com/salt-played-role-in-war-of-1812/#commentsWed, 21 May 2014 07:45:57 +0000Dennis Connorshttp://www.syracusenewtimes.com/?p=10571Lore of the Onondaga salt industry

]]>This year continues to mark the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812. The Onondaga Historical Association is hosting an exhibit from the National Museum of the U.S. Navy about naval activity during that war.

A local connection involves a man named Daniel Dobbins (1776-1856), a pioneer mariner on Lake Erie in the early 1800s. One of the most sought-after commodities in this era was salt, one of the few means available to preserve fish and meats before refrigeration.

An early history of Erie, Pa., states, “Previous to the war of 1812-14, a dozen or more vessels comprised the whole merchant fleet of the lake, averaging about sixty tons each. The chief article of freight was salt from Salina, N.Y., which was brought to Erie, landed on the beach … hauled in wagons to Waterford, and from there floated down … to Pittsburgh.”

Before canals, salt heading west left the shores of Onondaga Lake on boats run down the Seneca and Oswego rivers. At Oswego, the salt barrels were placed on a schooner, shipped to the Lower Niagara River, portaged around Niagara Falls, and then reloaded onto another sailboat for Erie. The trade totaled thousands of barrels annually.

Dobbins was one of the most active of these Lake Erie merchant captains. In 1809, he purchased a 90-ton schooner called the Charlotte and renamed the ship Salina, after the place that would be the source for most of its cargo: the village on Onondaga Lake. Sometimes he unloaded Onondaga salt at Erie, destined for Pittsburgh. Other times, he sailed up the Great Lakes to Mackinac and traded salt there for furs, which he brought to Montreal for great profit.

Daniel Dobbins from Lossings.Photo: Onondaga Historical Association.

The United States declared war on Britain on June 18, 1812. Dobbins and the Salina were docked at Mackinac Island, at the head of Lake Michigan. The small American garrison, stationed at that island’s fort, was soon surprised by an enemy force of 300, which was 10 times its number. Dobbins and the Salina were temporarily commandeered by the victorious British and ordered to transport the paroled American prisoners to Detroit.

In August, a larger British force attacked and seized Detroit. Dobbins again found himself and the Salina in British hands. This time, the British kept the Salina to use as a supply ship. Dobbins, however, escaped.

The Madison administration in Washington knew it needed a naval fleet on Lake Erie or risk defeat on that front. Dobbins was asked to serve as a sailing master in the Navy and ordered to return to Lake Erie and establish a shipyard. He chose Erie, Pa., and Dobbins’ labors became the nucleus for the shipbuilding effort that would lead to creating Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry’s Lake Erie fleet.

Meanwhile, the British were using the former salt-hauling Salina to transport provisions and shipbuilding supplies among their Lake Erie posts in Canada. In December 1812, she was caught in Lake Erie ice and abandoned.

At the same time that winter, Dobbins and his construction crew were desperate for materials to outfit his unfinished gunboats at Erie. One day, to Dobbins’ surprise, a “ghost” ship appeared offshore, locked in the ice and abandoned. He organized a salvage operation, drawing sleds over the ice. Dobbins was no doubt amazed to find the ship that had drifted down the lake in the ice floe was his old command, the Salina.

Battle of Lake Erie engraving.Photo: OHA

It was a fortunate event. Dobbins decided to remove everything he could use. Desperately needed rope for rigging was taken. Scrap iron, rods and spikes from the Salina could be converted by blacksmiths into nails and fastenings for the ships that would become part of Perry’s fleet. Perry himself took over assembling the Lake Erie fleet in 1813, but Dobbins, the Great Lakes salt trader, continued to work closely with him on construction and supply details.

Their effort resulted in an American Lake Erie squadron of 11 vessels, nine of which confronted the British fleet at the western end of the lake in an epic naval battle on Sept. 10, 1813. The Battle of Lake Erie was a major American victory, immortalized with Perry’s report to his superiors: “We have met the enemy, and they are ours …”

The British defeat gave the Navy control of the Upper Great Lakes for the remainder of the war.

Dobbins had hoped to participate in this crucial battle. Perry, however, had given him command of the Ohio, a 59-foot merchant schooner with one gun. Perry assigned it to supply duties, and it was docked at Erie when the battle began. Three days later, Dobbins and the Ohio reached the victorious squadron and its captured prizes, carrying much-needed provisions for the weary and wounded sailors of both sides.

Barrels in warehouse. Photo: OHA

Dobbins continued with the Navy into the 1820s and then with the Revenue Cutter Service, a precursor to the U.S. Coast Guard. He left the salt trade behind, but getting Onondaga salt to market continued as one of the important drivers for internal improvements in the United States, especially for the creation of the Erie Canal.

Today, Dobbins lies buried at Erie. The hulk of the salt schooner Salina lies just a few miles away, beneath the waters of Lake Erie. Almost 200 years later, its small role in helping outfit Perry’s victorious War of 1812 fleet remains a provocative but virtually forgotten footnote in the lore of the Onondaga salt industry.

Dennis Connors is curator of history at the Onondaga Historical Association.

]]>George Barnard, one of Central New York’s own, has slowly gained recognition as among the most important pioneer photographers in documenting the tragedy of America’s Civil War. A 2013 exhibition on Civil War photography at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art included an entire gallery devoted to Barnard’s work. In November, the Washington Post’s magazine featured an article on war photography titled “Pioneers of the Form.” It highlighted the four Civil War photographers generally acknowledged as the most significant in that field: Matthew Brady, Timothy O’Sullivan, Alexander Gardner and George Barnard.

George Barnard

Before the war, Barnard had studios in both Syracuse and Oswego and captured some of the earliest images of Syracuse with his camera. Around 1859, he began contract work for larger studios based in New York City, which brought him into the orbit of Mathew Brady.

Brady assigned him to Washington, D.C., just as the Civil War broke out. Barnard captured some of the first photos of the Bull Run battlefield. Later in the war, he was hired by the Army to document military structures and fortifications in the western theater. In 1864 and 1865, this afforded him the opportunity to include the impact of warfare as Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman’s troops marched through Georgia and the Carolinas.

After the war, Barnard was able to use these images, and further photos of key locations, to assemble a major portfolio documenting what became known as Sherman’s “March to the Sea.” That portfolio of work, published in 1866, is considered one of the historic milestones in the development of landscape photography.

Barnard went to New York City to work on the production of this book, but he also resided for periods in Syracuse, on North Townsend Street, just behind Assumption Church. He still had family connections here. Barnard then decided to relocate to Charleston, S.C., in 1868. The nation had interest in the Reconstruction effort and the South’s future. Barnard saw an opportunity to record that.

His work was successful, but his sojourn in Charleston was interrupted with another move, this time to Chicago to be near his sister Mary. Her husband, a successful businessman, offered to underwrite the establishment of a studio there for Barnard. He moved to Chicago in 1871, just a few months before it was devastated by fire.

The Great Chicago Fire burned for two days, killed up to 300 people, consumed more than 2,000 acres in the heart of the city and left about 100,000 people homeless. Barnard ran to his studio to save some items from the raging fire. Like others, he then headed for Lake Michigan in advance of the flames and waded into the water, holding his equipment over his head.

The destruction of Chicago was unbelievable, and the nation was instantly hungry for images of the desolation. Many photographers flocked to the city; Barnard was already there and soon produced 63 stereo views.

Among the Ruins in Chicago No. 11

Although less known than his Civil War work, these Chicago Fire images stand today as an effective blend of both the documentary and aesthetic talents of Barnard. Like his Civil War portfolio, these photos show an imaginative use of composition.

He framed a view of the burned-out courthouse through a series of cast-iron arches from across the street. In another photo, the stark remains of the Congregational Church appear like an abstract sculpture. The Onondaga Historical Association owns a complete set of these stereo views and an original copy of his highly valued Civil War portfolio.

Ruins of Railroad Roundhouse in Atlanta

Barnard later returned to Charleston, documenting more scenes of the “Old South”: its churches, landmarks, historic landscapes and citizens. His photos of African-Americans at the time, both in studio portraiture and documentation of their plantation experiences, constitute some of the best known views of mid-19th-century black life in the South.

Scenes in South Carolina No 84

The 1880s found Barnard in the Rochester area as one of George Eastman’s earliest employees, working to promote Eastman’s revolutionary dry-plate technology. Eastman’s entrepreneurship led to the creation of the Kodak empire. Barnard, however, moved on. He tried his hand at manufacturing dry-plate equipment near Cleveland and, in a possible nod toward retirement, relocated with family to a farm in Alabama, but just for a few years. By 1893, Barnard moved to an in-law’s farm in the Cedarvale section of the town of Onondaga.

Black Girl with basket of vegetables shucking corn

There, Barnard lived out the final years of his life. He died in 1902 and is buried in a small cemetery along Pleasant Valley Road, just east of Marcellus.

OHA has conducted extensive research on Barnard and assembled an important collection of his work. Much of Barnard’s photography, spread over the “seasons” of his life, is on exhibit at OHA’s museum through August in a show titled Ever A New Season: 19th Century Photographer George Barnard. For information, visit www.cnyhistory.org.

Dennis Connors is curator of history at the Onondaga Historical Association.

]]>On the North Side of Syracuse, near East Laurel Street, stands the city’s only equestrian monument. Gen. Gustavus Sniper and his steed, “Bill,” have gazed serenely but nobly down Salina Street since 1905.

In these days of debate over immigration laws, it might be appropriate to note that our only citizen so honored was once an immigrant himself. Also adding to this momentary call for attention to Sniper is the commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the Civil War and the final chance for patrons to view an exhibition at the Onondaga Historical Association Museum that reviews the history of immigration in Syracuse. The exhibit closes Sunday, Jan. 26.

Sniper was born in 1836 in the Grand Duchy of Baden, a sovereign nation at the time but now a part of Germany. He came to America with his family as a child. His father was a laborer, and Sniper began working in a local cigar factory by the time he was a teenager. He had a basic public school education, supplemented by some night courses. He was drawn to the military, joining one of the local home militia units, called the Syracuse Light Guards, in 1854. Service in other like units followed until, during 1859-60, he helped organize another, the Munroe Cadets.

Meanwhile, he continued his work in the cigar manufacturing business, having formed a partnership with Nicholas Grumbach. They were listed as “tobacconists” in 1860 on North Salina Street, near Prospect, in the heart of the city’s German neighborhood.

The firing on Fort Sumter in April 1861 unleashed the Civil War, and Sniper, 25, was ready to put his untested military background into practice. He first wanted to raise a new company of volunteers that he could command, but the initial patriotic response was so enthusiastic that the early local units were filled before he succeeded. Undaunted, he joined the next available local volunteer regiment: the 101st NY Volunteers, as an individual, and quickly was given the rank of captain.

The 101st eventually became part of the Union Army of the Potomac in 1862. It faced considerable action outside Richmond during the Seven Days battle, which saw Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee drive the federals back from the rebel capital. The 101st was again heavily engaged in the infamous Union defeat at Fredericksburg later in 1862. The remainder of the regiment was merged with another at the end of that year, and its officers mustered out. Sniper returned home to Syracuse, soon married Catherine Miller and started a family.

Photo provided by Onondaga Historical Association.

During 1863 and 1864, however, despite a major defeat at Gettysburg, Lee’s Army of Virginia continued to stymie Union forces and, with mounting casualties, more Union soldiers were needed. Another regiment of volunteers, the 185th New York, was being organized in Onondaga County, and Sniper could not resist returning to the field. He joined, helped recruit others, was commissioned as a lieutenant colonel and left Syracuse with the unit, as second in command, on Sept.23, 1864.

The 185th joined the Army of the Potomac during its siege of Petersburg, Va. The regiment saw action there in skirmishes at Burgess Farm, Hatcher’s Run and Watkin’s Farm. During this period, there was a change in command, and Sniper was promoted to lead the 185th for the rest of the war.

The regiment saw its heaviest action, suffering more than 200 casualties, at a place called Quaker Road on March 29, 1865, as Grant pressed Lee’s right flank. During the battle, Union forces were initially being repulsed. The commander of the 185th brigade—Gen. Joshua Chamberlain, who gained fame at Little Round Top at the battle of Gettysburg—anxiously asked Colonel Sniper if his regiment could “save the day.” Sniper replied it would try, and the 185th launched a counter-attack.

While carrying the regimental flag, the unit’s color-bearer, Benton H. Wilson, was wounded twice. The sergeant of the color-company took over carrying the Stars & Stripes, but was killed in short order. Another member of the color guard seized the flag, but was immediately shot in the hand. Capt. Lathrop next grasped the colors, but was severely wounded in the foot. At this juncture, Sniper seized the flag and shouted, “Men of the 185th, forward!”

They rallied, followed their colonel and the final advance was made, overrunning the Confederate position. Lee soon had to abandon Petersburg and Richmond. Grant sent troops to pursue, including the 185th.

There was always a sincere measure of respect between members of the 185th and the former commander of their brigade, Chamberlain. In June 1899, Chamberlain traveled to Baldwinsville from Maine to address a reunion of the 185th. Chamberlain was famously be portrayed as one of the heroes of Gettysburg by actor Jeff Daniels in the 1993 movie based on Michael Shaara’s novel, The Killer Angels.

Further action for the 185th occurred at the critical Union victory at Five Forks and eventually near Appomattox Court House. It was there, on April 9, 1865, just as Lee’s flag of truce to discuss surrender was being shown, that Lt. Hiram Clark of the 185th became the last man killed in the Army of the Potomac when a rebel shell took his life.

Sniper and the 185th returned to Syracuse by train on June 3, 1865 and marched from the station in Vanderbilt Square to welcoming ceremonies in Hanover Square. The tattered remains of the silk flag that Sniper used to rally his men rests at the Onondaga County Courthouse.

After the war, Sniper’s reputation as a leader and his popularity among the city’s German-American community propelled him into government service. He served three terms in the state assembly, was elected county clerk and eventually a deputy collector of internal revenue. He also worked privately in the insurance business.

Sniper died unexpectedly in his North Side home, at 504 Prospect Ave., in 1894, just a few blocks from where his statue would be unveiled in 1905 – a civic project sponsored by local veterans and designed by Syracuse architect Charles E. Colton.

The exhibit, There’s No Place Like Home: A History of Immigration, the Great Migration and Refugee Resettlement in Onondaga County, can be viewed at the Onondaga Historical Association Museum, 321 Montgomery St., through Sunday.

]]>As an increasing number of states ease up on the once illegal use of marijuana, it is apropos to note that it was 80 years ago this month that the great experiment to make alcohol illegal, Prohibition, was finally declared a failure.

The topic of Prohibition is explored, with a local twist, in The Culture of the Cocktail Hour, a new exhibit at the Onondaga Historical Association. The show accompanies, and provides perspective for, a larger exhibition, Fashion after Five, which features 22 cocktail dresses drawn from the holdings of the association and Syracuse University’s Sue Ann Genet costume collection. Arranged on realistic mannequins, the gowns date from the 1920s through the 1990s.

Prohibition of alcohol had become federal law in 1920 with the adoption of the 18th Amendment to the Constitution.

But instead of raising the morality of the nation, as its advocates had long argued it would, it increased lawlessness. This ranged from the violent activities of gangsters like Chicago’s Al Capone to everyday, formerly law-abiding citizens who were technically breaking the law if they consumed a single beer in the backroom of a neighborhood club.

Liquor had been deeply woven into American social life since earliest colonial days. In the 17th and 18th centuries, beer and hard cider were considered safer drinks than water drawn from unknown sources. Wine was regarded as a basic food. Some of Onondaga County’s earliest settlements included a tavern from their beginnings.

E.C. Stearns poster with modern liberated woman of the time on the popular “Yellow Fellow” model in 1896

By the mid-1800s, however, some people believed that the consumption of beer, whiskey, rum and other intoxicants had become much too widespread. They argued that it created hardships for families, especially for women and their children as husbands drank away wages. Taverns bred gambling, vice and prostitution, they cried.

This “Temperance Movement” coincided with the mid-19th century’s great religious and moral revival–the same revival that created the anti-slavery and women’s rights movements–and it persisted, right into the early 20th century

American cities like Syracuse, teaming with new immigrants, had grown into large urban centers. Their saloons and breweries became symbols to some citizens, usually those living in rural America, of a growing moral decay in the nation. At a local level, temperance advocates began to lobby many towns and smaller cities to adopt “dry” laws, banning liquor within their borders. By 1916, 10 of Onondaga County’s 19 towns had such laws.

The Temperance Movement eventually achieved its goal with passage of the 18th Amendment: The National Prohibition Act essentially turned the entire United States dry. It was ratified in January 1919 and took effect a year later, making the production and consumption of virtually all liquor illegal.

Enforcing the law, however, proved almost impossible. Most Americans, in little ways, clever ways and, sometimes, violent ways often got around the ban. There was illegal smuggling from Canada, concealed stills in the countryside, secret hiding places in homes and the wayward, but always popular, speakeasy.

Speakeasies sprung up all over Syracuse, from small backroom operations in homes to elaborately decorated upper floors in the heart of downtown. These classier speakeasies would evolve into the nightclubs of the 1930s and 1940s, after the end of Prohibition in 1933.

Ironically, women had achieved the right to vote in 1920, with the passage of the 19th Amendment. The decade of the 1920s became one of their liberation, perhaps most notably in dress, with the image of the “flapper girl” in her short hair and ankle-revealing skirts.

But the anonymity of the speakeasy also supported another facet of this liberating decade for women. Somehow, women seemed more at ease drinking in a hidden speakeasy, instead of publicly, in the old male-dominated saloon. Plus, the speakeasy needed their business and did not discourage women drinkers. For the male customers, the already naughty nature of a speakeasy was only enhanced by the presence of women.

And the cocktail thrived. New recipes became popular, such as the daiquiri, to help flavor the sometimes watered-down or poorly distilled liquor that might arrive at a speakeasy. Also, the flavored cocktail was often preferred by the increasing numbers of women customers frequenting the speakeasy.

Local, state and national law enforcement agencies were supposed to stop all this illegal alcoholic consumption and production but never really succeeded. There were raids, arrests, bottles smashed and gallons of liquor dumped into sewers. But the illegal activity soon returned, because the public demand was always present and there was money to be made.

Down the hatch. As police watch, men dump liquor into a Syracuse sewer during Prohibition. Courtesy of Onondaga Historical Association.

The intensity of police and judicial activity varied greatly. Some officials were lax, perhaps questioning the wisdom of Prohibition. Undoubtedly, a few were bribed to look the other way. But several pursued their job with great energy, such as when federal agent Charles Kress was assigned to Syracuse. A federal agent detailed here in the late 1920s, Kress was the “Elliott Ness” of Syracuse, feared by bootleggers for his aggressive raids and sometimes flamboyant stunts in breaking into speakeasies. Syracuse was not Chicago, however, and there was little open violence.

Syracuse police, Onondaga County sheriff’s deputies and federal agents made many arrests, but some were dismissed on technicalities. Even if bootleggers were found guilty, penalties were not severe. A common dodge for speakeasy operators might be lack of a search warrant by the raiders. And the speakeasy management was adept at quickly hiding or disposing of the incriminating liquor evidence.

Speakeasy raids made good headlines, though, and one of the most notorious in the Salt City occurred on Feb. 7, 1931, when Syracuse police broke into one particularly elaborate hideout just off Columbus Circle. It was described as one of the most lavish speakeasies ever found in the city, with a posted menu listing 75 drinks and cocktails. This most ornate speakeasy was on the third floor of the Wood Building, in the 200 block of East Jefferson Street.

Wood Building Speakeasy next to Mizpah Towers. Photo courtesy of Onondaga Historical Association.

Working on a tip that “many young girls of the city, some unescorted” were seen frequenting the building, Syracuse Police detective Martin Kavanaugh walked over from police headquarters near Clinton Square and rang a bell next to a locked door leading to the upper floors.

A man, later identified as Arthur Anklin, opened a peephole in the door and announced, “Sorry gentlemen, but only members are admitted here.” Seeing a glass transom above the door, Kavanaugh broke the glass, crawled through and unlocked a heavy metal door to let five other officers enter. Meanwhile, Anklin had run up to his speakeasy and was doing his best to dispose of all the liquor.

When Kavanaugh and the other officers reached the third floor, the local press reported, they were “amazed at the scene which met their eyes.” The décor was fancier than some of the high-class lounges in existence before Prohibition. There was a long mahogany bar in front of a large mirror, cozily furnished chairs, plush oriental rugs and softly shaded floor lamps, with private rooms off the main lounge. If there was any doubt about its function, the prominent display of the menu of drinks and cocktails erased that uncertainty.

In the press. A newspaper reports on the reaction after the raid on a speakeasy in the Wood Building, in the 200 block of East Jefferson Street. Courtesy of OHA.

While keeping an eye on Anklin, who had grabbed his coat and hat, the police began a search for any incriminating booze. A few quarts of whiskey and several bottles of Canadian ale were uncovered, but the largest quantity was noticed lying in the snow on a nearby lower roof of the adjacent First Baptist Church and Mizpah Hotel. It had clearly been quickly tossed out a window. Anklin was arrested.

The police also confiscated a list of the private club’s “members,” which reportedly included prominent local citizens. The case gained a great deal of attention because the speakeasy had been operating adjacent to a Baptist church and because the roof on which the liquor had been thrown was just outside the study of its pastor, the Rev. Bernard C. Clausen.

Clausen was infuriated that such illegal goings-on had occurred in the shadow of his sanctuary. The minister, upset by the emergency use of his roof, demanded that police release the names of the club’s members. This must have given several of the speakeasy’s regulars a case of the sweats. But they were not to worry. Because Kavanaugh did not have a search warrant, the raid was ruled illegal by U.S Commissioner Edward Chapman. Anklin was freed.

The Wood Building speakeasy soon reopened, but its manager did not reckon on the fury of Clausen, who began a crusade against the place. Continuing attention by the press, generated in part by Clausen, eventually forced Mayor Rollie Marvin to exert pressure on the building owner to evict Anklin and his “private club.” Anklin left, and it was assumed he moved his operation to some other, undisclosed location.

The Wood Building still stands, along with its neighbor, the former First Baptist Church and Mizpah Tower. While the latter is well known for its landmark status and long-standing odyssey in search of a successful re-use, the Building remains fairly anonymous – perhaps as Anklin would have wished it to be in 1931.

A visit to the Onondaga Historical Association’s exhibits offers more colorful history of the cocktail in Syracuse along with a chance to view styles of cocktail gowns over the years, including designs that might have once graced Syracuse’s most notorious speakeasy.

Dennis Connors is curator of history at the Onondaga Historical Association.